


Free falling

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: CA: CW compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Spiderman Homecoming compliant, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, sick spiderman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Peter fights alongside Tony in the Civil War, but he's not feeling fantastic.  After the combat ends, he's injured and feeling a whole lot worse.





	Free falling

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051. This is my first Spiderman fic EVER, and I'm insanely pleased with how it turned out. I really hope you guys like it, and I'd be psyched for more prompts of a similar nature (hit me up here or on Tumblr).
> 
> This is canon (Whaaaaaat?! Good job, Laura.)

When Mr. Stark tells him to stay down, Peter’s first instinct is to protest.  “I’m good,” he says, trying to stand up without jostling his very painful ribs.

 

“No, you’re done,” Tony says.  He drops a metal-gloved hand on Peter’s shoulder. 

 

Peter tries to insist, though he’s gasping for breath.  Tony threatens to tell May, and the argument’s over. “Ok, yeah, I’m done,” Peter concedes.   Then Tony’s gone and Peter’s still murmuring, “I’m done…”

 

Peter isn’t sure how long he lies there on his little square of runway pavement.  The battle rages on for a while, but then there’s a huge jet takeoff noise, and things drift into quiet after that.  Peter’s ears are still ringing, though, and there’s a frizz of shimmering stars around the edges of his vision.  He can barely take a deep breath around the sharp sensation of what feels like a boulder wedged into the side of his chest. But possibly worst is the slight aura of not-quite-rightness that’s been hanging around since last night ratcheting up toward full-blown body aches.  Which, of course, makes every sensation more acutely uncomfortable.  Great luck he’s got going here…

 

He does have great luck, Peter reminds himself.  He’s met Tony Stark.  He has a new suit.  He’s traveled outside New York for the first time in his life.  Well, except for that one time he went to Jersey, but that’s beside the point.  The most famous team of superheroes in the world has recognized him as something. Or, well, half it has.  But the pros are starting to feel a little negligible under the growing pile of cons.  God, his head hurts.  Wait, when did that start up?

 

It’s Happy that comes and pulls Peter off the tarmac.  “How bad are you hurt?” he asks by way of a greeting. 

 

“Oh.  Not bad,” Peter says. 

 

“My intel says you were injured.”  Happy looks odd in his buttoned suit jacket, bending over with his tie hanging straight down.

 

“Intel?  What—?”

 

“You’re under video surveillance.”  Happy’s face is all seriousness.

 

“Really?”

 

“No.  I just talked to Stark.  How bad are you hurt?”

 

“I’m ok.”  Peter gets to a sitting position with a grimace he hopes is hidden by his mask.  “My side hurts a little.”  He pushes to his knees, then to his feet.  Actually, make that a lot.

 

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Happy asks.

 

“No,” Peter replies.  His head choses that moment to throb awfully, and a twist of pain comes through in his voice.

 

“Ok, good.  I hate parking garages,” Happy says, tucking his tie back in.  “Come on, I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

 

They walk slowly down the runway, which is deserted except for a slew of battered planes and trucks, some of which look to be smoldering.

 

When they reach the glossy black car, Peter asks, “Where’s Mr. Stark?”

 

“In the ambulance,” Happy replies with no emotion.

 

“What?!” Peter shouts, every inch of his body protesting the volume of his voice.  “I didn’t know he was hurt.  We should go to the hospital, then, and like, go see him.”

 

“No.  War Machine.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“War Machine got hurt.  Stark’s fine,” Happy explains, his lack of patience evident as he aggressively turns the key in the ignition.  He turns his head to look at Peter in the backseat.  “You sure you didn’t get a head injury or something?”

 

“Mm?”  Peter lifts his still-masked head from where he’d been leaning against the window.

 

“You’re kind of slow today.  Slower than usual.”

 

“’M not slow…” Peter mumbles.  He’s suddenly too hot, and his body feels constricted.  He pulls off his mask, then returns his head to the tinted window, sweat-damp hair smearing the glass.  The pressure on the bottom half of his face hasn’t let up, and hopes it’s not a sign he’s about to puke all over the backseat of Mr. Stark’s car.

 

The ride back to the hotel isn’t long, but Peter’s still thankful when it’s over.  Happy lets him out in front of the high-class sliding doors, and Peter shuffles through them.  He’s almost embarrassed as he crosses the gold and marble lobby, but the emotion ranks just shy of the top spot on his non-existent mental state scoreboard.  He mostly just feels sick.  And he wonders where the hell he stashed his key card.

 

The slip of plastic is stowed in his suit’s one interior pocket, and Peter has to practically disrobe from the waist up in order to reach it.  Once in the spacious room, the only thing Peter wants to do is flop onto the bed.  So he does, but he ditches his suit first in favor of sweat pants.  He’s too hot to bother with a shirt, plus it kind of hurts to put his arms over his head.

 

As soon as he lies down, though, Peter’s cold.  He pulls the fluffy white duvet around his shoulders like a cape and partially cocoons in it, though is bare feet are still splayed out in the open.  Yep.  He’s sick.  Peter muses over how stupid it was for him to come.  He’d had a nagging feeling this might happen, despite all the Airborne he’d drank.  But, who’s he kidding.  This is the best day of his life.

 

There’s a knock on the door, then no pause before it swings open.  Peter snaps open eyes he didn’t realize were closed.  “What’s going on?” he wheezes.

 

“I’m supposed to be your nurse now,” Happy says through gritted teeth.  “And keep an eye on you until Stark gets back.”  He looks less than thrilled with the new roles.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says.  “I’m ok.”

 

Happy drops the first aid kit he’s holding onto the bed and uzips it.  “You said your side hurts?”

 

“Yeah, ‘s no big deal,” Peter insists. 

 

“Do you have broken ribs?”

 

“No.  Just bruised or something.”  Though to be fair, Peter’s never a broken a bone and doesn’t have any idea where the difference in pain lies.

 

Happy pulls out a cold pack and kneads it to activate the cooling reaction of the chemicals inside.  “Here.” He tosses it to Peter, who doesn’t even reach up and attempt to catch.

 

Peter grabs it up and tentatively positions it against the tender pink-tinged skin he knows will probably break into a mottled mess of black and blue by tomorrow.  The pack is painfully cold, and he winces at the feel of it.  A rush of shivers flows over his body and up to his head, redoubling the ache.

 

“Do you have ibuprofen or something?” Peter asks.

 

“I thought you said it was no big deal,” Happy replies.

 

“Uh, well, it’s mostly my head, actually…”  And his fever.  And yeah, maybe a little bit his ribs too.

 

“You do have a head injury?”

 

“No!” Peter insists.  “Like, an adrenaline crash headache thing?”

 

“Ok, here.”  Happy produces pills and a bottle of water. 

 

“Can I have three?”

 

“You’re a minor.  You get two.”

 

“Ok, fine.”  Peter swallows the orange coated tablets and exhales as he wills them to flow straight down to his stomach and start making a dent in his overall discomfort.

 

“I’m supposed to check on you every hour.  So, please stay put and don’t screw with anything.”  Happy closes the first aid kit with attitude and heads for the door.

 

“Yeah,” Peter sighs absently.  The longer he lies there, the more he’s convinced he’ll be staying horizontal.

 

The next thing Peter knows, the door’s opening again.  “Are you sleeping?” Happy asks in an inappropriately loud whisper.

 

“Yes,” Peter groans back.  Well, he’s not anymore.  But it only takes him a moment to drift of again.

 

When he wakes next, it’s to the sound of something heavy bouncing off the wall.  “Huh?” he breathes. No one’s in the room with him, so of course no one replies. 

 

Peter takes a deep breath, which hurts, and scrubs his hand over his forehead, which also hurts.  The ice pack tucked against his side is burning his overheated skin with its icy bite.  And his stomach hurts now. Fan-flipping-tastic.

 

The thing hits the wall again, and when raised voices start to sound alongside the thumping, he realizes it’s coming from the room next door.  Peter’s not sure exactly what’s going on, but snatches of “Rhodey…” and “Paralyzed…” and “Captain fucking America…” generally let him know that it’s not good.

 

In his fevered state, it seems like a good idea to get up and see what’s going on, so that’s what Peter does.  He unwraps from his partial duvet burrito and pads barefoot out of his room and toward Mr. Stark’s. 

 

The door isn’t completely closed, so Peter lets himself in, not paying mind to the fact that he’s partially dressed and entirely uninvited.  “What’s going on?” he asks hoarsely, squinting around.  His headache hasn’t improved with the transition to being upright, and the glare of the overhead lighting isn’t helping.

 

“Hey, no, this doesn’t concern you,” Tony says, waving Peter away from across the room.  Then he goes back to throwing his fist into the wall.  Maybe Peter imagines it, but it seems like a trickle of dust is falling from the ceiling.  “Happy, can you put him back?”

 

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to move from watching surveillance footage of Colonel Rhodes in the hospital?” Happy asks unsurely.  He’s seated in a hard chair at a rich mahogany desk, watching pixelated footage of a man apparently sleeping in a hospital bed with machines hooked up to his arms and face.

 

“Yeah, go put him back, then keep watching,” Tony says.  He lets loose on the wall one more time, then shakes his hand and says, “Where’s the fucking scotch?  I can’t deal with this, all this shit happening…”

 

“What shit’s happening?” Peter asks.  “I mean, didn’t it end?  With the fight?”

 

“I’m allowed to say bad words.  You are not,” Tony says, pointing at Peter and blowing some dust off his knuckles. 

 

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes.  He reaches out for the wall, then realizes he’s too far away, so he stumble-steps and tries to casually lean his shoulder against it without betraying that everything in his body’s starting to go to shit.  Which he’s not saying out loud.

 

“Yeah, well,” Tony says.  “Small potatoes now.  Since Captain goddamn America’s a war criminal, his psycho-killer BFF is on the loose, and my very respectable Air Force colonel BFF is on life support in a hospital that doesn’t even take our insurance!”

 

“Aw, geez,” Peter says.  “I…I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark.”  It’s news to Peter, and he’s starting to hazily realize how much he’s been kept in the dark.  Captain America… really.  The guy he watches videos of in school. And Stark has such a low opinion of him now.  Peter’s really going to have to re-think his childhood heroes. 

 

Only not right now.  His body’s covered in goosebumps because he’s so cold, and his head’s obviously about to fall off because it hurts so much.  And—no, actually it’s boiling in here.  Something’s seriously wrong with the thermostat.  Or at least his body’s internal one.  Sweat prickles on Peter’s upper lip and a surge of sudden and unexpected nausea licks through his chest on the way to his throat.

 

“You, you were a big help,” Tony says, pointing at Peter again.  “I just can’t believe that fucking Boy Scout isn’t backing down.  He’s hurting more people than he’s helping.”  He tears his fingers angrily through his hair.  “And for once I’m on the right side of things, trying to keep people from dying.  Like freakingRhodey.  And what thanks do I get?  Oh, just some combat against people I thought were my friends.”

 

“Yeah, that’s…” Peter says, fishing for something to say while also swallowing hard to keep his stomach in place.  “I’m really sorry.”

 

“Not your goddamn fault,” Tony whispers to the floor.  He raises his head and takes in Peter’s look. “You’re way too pale.  Happy, I think the kid needs a scotch too.  Or, what am I saying, maybe like a cherry coke or something.”

 

“Actually,” Peter says, his voice breaking a little, “I don’t…”  The floor’s falling out from under him.  There’s too much spit in his mouth, and it all tastes sour.  “I don’t feel that good.”

 

“Yeah, of course you don’t,” Tony dismisses, missing Peter’s message.  “Do they still make that, what’s it called, French vanilla Dr. Pepper?”

 

Bile explodes into Peter’s throat, and he claps a hand over his mouth.  “I’m gonna be sick,” he mutters, taking off for the bathroom. 

 

“The hell?”  Tony leaps out of Peter’s way.  Peter slams his knees into the cold tile floor and heaves hard, reverberations lancing up his ribs in a painful web of neural flares.

 

“Hey, chill out, ok?”  Tony’s hand tentatively pats Peter’s shoulder.  Bile and stomach acid hit the toilet water.  Peter doesn’t have a lot to expel.

 

“Happy?” Tony calls, away from Peter’s ear.  “Why didn’t you tell me I had a sick kid on my hands?”

 

“He’s not sick,” Happy’s voice replies.

 

“He’s puking and he has a fever,” Tony responds.  “He’s sick.”

 

“Well, he wasn’t feeling good, but he just got beat up.  What was I supposed to think?”

 

“I’m ok,” Peter murmurs, spitting out ropes of snot and breathing through the urge to gag again.  “Don’t…don’t worry about me.”

 

“Too late,” Tony says.  “D’you think you can go lay down or something?”

 

Peter retches and brings up a splash of something that really shouldn’t have chunks in it.  He squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see whatever he ate last Tuesday make an unwelcome reappearance. 

 

“Ok, never mind,” Tony says.  “Ginger ale, maybe?  Or a fever reducer?  Assuming you’re stomach’s going to calm down.”

 

“Already…took ibuprofen,” Peter pants, his words echoing wetly back at him.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Happy,” Tony shouts, his footsteps pounding out of the bathroom.  “You gave him meds on an empty stomach?  It’s always like this with kids.  You have to give them like, half a banana or a Scooby snack or something or they’re gonna ralph everywhere for sure.  You were there that time Barton’s family came around, right?”

 

“’m not a kid…” Peter mumbles.  He rides out the next spasming retch and listens to the padding of Tony’s sneakers approach again. 

 

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” Tony says, leaning back against the door frame.  “I’m gonna fix this.”

 

“Hey, don’t worry about me, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, surfacing from the toilet and rubbing the back of his hand across his sweaty lip.  “I don’t want to distract you—”  Peter pauses to hiccup.  “Or anything.  Just. I’ll be ok.”

 

“Sure you will.”  Tony checks his watch.  “I’ve got 22 hours to get you back to normal, or May will never let me take you anywhere ever again.”  Then he calls out to Happy, “Do you think we can order saltines from room service?”

 

Peter smiles.  Laughs.  Then hacks until he gags again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Prompts?


End file.
